


Random Transformer prompts

by Fulcrumisthebomb



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, cute robot fluff, random MTMTE pairings, random ratings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulcrumisthebomb/pseuds/Fulcrumisthebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short Transformer pairing prompts from tumblr, including but not limited to MTMTE, TFP and G1. Individual rating on each fic, ranging from fluff to innuendo to smut.</p><p>Each chapter is titled by pairing so you can easily find what you'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rung/Fortress Maximus 1

As sweet as Rung could be, and usually was, Fortress Maximus wouldn’t have ever thought of his lover as tactile- and  _never_  touched Max without expressly asking permission beforehand. If anything,  _he_  was the one clinging to the smaller bot on most occasions. It wasn’t that Rung didn’t enjoy holding hands or sitting close; likely it was simple habit from his profession that restricted him. Still, Fortress Maximus harboured a secret desire for Rung to initiate physical intimacy on his own; the few times he did, Fortress Maximus couldn’t begin to describe how  _wanted_  he’d felt.

And how he felt now, watching Rung crawl into his lap with an uncharacteristically silly grin. It had taken Fortress Maximus only a few kliks to piece together Rung’s expression of surprise as he downed his glass and Brainstorm’s background protests about a wrong drink. He could feel an overcharged heat radiating from the delicate frame even before Rung moved closer, leaning heavily into his side before ending up curled on his thighs. Fortress Maximus’ hands naturally settled around the slender waist, steadying Rung with gentle nudges.

Seconds later Fortress Maximus was gasping as tiny hands roamed his frame greedily, strumming sensitive wiring and stroking sensual lines through armour gaps. “Rung,” he rumbled in warning, “I- I don’t think-,”

"Shhhh." One hand moved up to outline Fortress Maximus’ mouth with intense care, fingertips dipping teasingly between the lips. Rung giggled when the lips closed firmly around the intrusions. "I don’t get to do this, Max, I never feel… _free._  Don’t make me stop.”

"But you  _can_ , anytime you wish,” Fortress Maximus mumbled around the digits. “Please, Rung, I  _want_  you to!”

"I don’t…" A slight frown marred Rung’s radiant expression. "I can’t, it’s- so hard." The grin swiftly returned as he stretched upward, pressing warm kisses to Fortress Maximus’ chin. "Not hard now," he chuckled.

Fortress Maximus sighed, an odd mix of pleasure and frustration pulsing through his systems. Carefully he gathered Rung in one hand, holding him protectively close to his chassis as he stood and made for the door. It felt wrong, somehow, to enjoy these touches when Rung knew he was only doing so through an artificial release of inhibitions-

"Max?" Rung’s voice was impossibly small.

"Hmm?" 

"Teach me?" Rung’s grip tightened around his neck, nuzzled the thick cabling desperately. "Please, Max, I need you to teach me it’s alright. That all this is… alright."

Fortress Maximus’ spark swirled happily as he hunched over, softly kissing the audial tilted toward him. “Yes, of course, dearest.”


	2. Rung/Fortress Maximus 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrible innuendo in this one~

"I am  _not,_ " Rung declared, flopping backwards with a sharp  _ting_  on Fortress Maximus’ chassis, “an  _ornament_.”

"…Look like one to me right now," Fortress Maximus rumbled with a laugh.

Rung chuckled, reaching blindly over one shoulder to smack at the warm metal below him. “You know, I got over my anxiety a long time ago. I carried such stress and sorrow for a time that had been instilled in me by the Functionalists, but when test after test failed…”

"You stopped caring? Good." Fortress Maximus huffed, reaching up to rest one hand over Rung’s middle. "You need no justification from anyone. You’re amazing, and that’s it. Fact."

Rung hummed, partially to cover his embarrassment as he stared out at the stars with his partner, the room falling into a comfortable silence as their hands lazily explored and twined together. It was inordinately peaceful, being accepted for exactly who and what he was- and what he was not.

Still…

"Swerve made a good case for my alt mode, though," Rung mused, grinning when Fortress Maximus laughed again, shaking him with the force. "I do make an effective weapon. Of sorts."

"Even with his horrific inaccuracy." Fortress Maximus paused, a flicker of tension rolling through his frame until Rung flipped on his front and leaned in to kiss him, slowly, in reassurance.

"The past is the past," Rung murmured.

"Yes," Fortress Maximus agreed seriously, then perked again. "Maybe you’re a key?"

"A… key?" Rung tilted his head. "We tried that… I didn’t quite fit into anything available, though."

"Fit into me just fine," Fortress Maximus said with an exaggerated wink, huffing in amusement when Rung began choking.

"That’s awful and- and…" Rung’s optics lit with a brilliant flare, his grin turning decidedly sly as he sat up and straddled Fortress Maximus’ chassis. "That’s a very, very wicked idea, Max."

Horrified- and suddenly so very turned on- Fortress Maximus could do nothing but break into laughter with Rung.


	3. Rung/Fortress Maximus 3

The lure of ‘classic’ human drama was stronger than even Rewind had predicted, though perhaps Swerve playing up the dramatisations the week leading up to movie night might have helped the large turnout.

Part of the fun, at least for Rung, was the pre-show show: Perceptor and Brainstorm arguing mathematical heights and optimal viewing angles and seating arrangements, Trailbreaker skewing the practise projected imagery by placing tiny forcefields on Rewind’s helm, Chromedome yelling, Whirl yelling back. It was utter chaos, and Rung loved every second of it. He watched the rowdy group from his perch in Fortress Maximus’ lap with a mix of fascination and intense study. Good times, like Swerve said as he clamoured up beside Fortress Maximus. The minibot turned and settled on one wide thigh, pulling out a bucket of candied energon and began stuffing large quantities into his mouth.

Seconds later there was a pawing at Rung’s side, Tailgate squeaking for assistance as he attempted to wiggle up toward him. Rung chuckled to himself as Fortress Maximus absently scooped the minibot in one hand and settled him on his other knee. Tailgate immediately dove into Swerve’s candy, setting off a lot of evil cackling and playful slaps.

Rung had just resettled when Rewind called up to him.

“ _Hey_ , you’re in my seat!”

Rung stiffened immediately, trying to not frown as he glanced down at the archivist. “I’m certain you can sit on Max’s shoulders.”

"His lap gives me the best angle," Rewind argued, crossing his arms and tapping one pede impatiently. "Just scoot over, willya?"

"No," Rung replied childishly, ashamed of his reaction but not so much that he would give in. "Max said-  _promised_  I could sit with him.”

"But-!"

"Quit it, you two," Fortress Maximus rumbled. The armour over his spark chamber split, the outermost casing flipping down to create a makeshift platform. Rung could  _feel_  the smugness radiating from Rewind as the minibot was lifted to sit just above his helm.

"Never took  _you_  to be the stubborn type, Rung,” Rewind laughed as he settled on the edge.

"I can be when it comes to Max," Rung smiled, throwing his arms wide as Swerve and Tailgate leaned back into him in preparation for the movie, holding them close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINIBOT COUCH THO~


	4. Misfire/Fulcrum

Halfway through a defrag cycle, Fulcrum’s defense systems roared to life as a crushing weight pinned him down. Wheezing, fuel pump racing, Fulcrum flailed and panicked as he tried to throw off his assailant. Strong hands gripped his helm before his optics onlined and Fulcrum let out a strangled yell- which was abruptly cut off by a warm mouth covering his own.

_Misfire._

By the time the wet glossa had made a thorough inspection of his own and retreated, Fulcrum’s vents had evened somewhat, though his frame was still shaking. As soon as his optics registered the blurry figure above him he threw a punch. Hard.

“ _Ow!_  Frag, sweetspark, wot’s _that_  for?!”

"For  _terrifying_  me,” Fulcrum snapped, shoving the jet off and rolling to face toward the wall. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

"I needed kisses," Misfire whined, pawing at Fulcrum’s shoulder. "Still do, actually, quota hasn’t been met today, see. Not that I could ever be full up on Fulcrum kisses, but y’know-,"

"Go to sleep!"

"But  _Fulcruuuuum~_ I  _loooooove_  you!”

"It’s  _not_  mutual!” Well, that certainly wasn’t true, but- “Not right now!” Fulcrum added with a sigh as he felt Misfire shifting to curl against his back, one arm draping over his hip.

"Awww. Well, that’s okay." Misfire pressed a quick kiss to the back of his helm. "I love your grumpiness, too!"


	5. Red Alert/Inferno

Red Alert forcefully punched the  _Send_  command on the console, then slumped back against Inferno with a harsh vent. 

“Done?” Inferno asked, his tone uncharacteristically weary. 

“Yes,” Red Alert replied in a whisper, shuttering his optics as one of Inferno’s large hands came up to press him close. “Yes, we’re finally finished.” 

“Good of you to do Jazz’s reports,” Inferno murmured in his audial, nuzzling affectionately. “Didja hear Ratchet screamin’ at him for bein’ outta the medbay?” 

“ _I_  would have been yelling at him if Ratchet hadn’t,” Red Alert huffed indignantly. “Jazz was leaving a energon trail all over the Ark! Fool doesn’t know when to quit.” 

“At least he asked for help,” Inferno mumbled, resting his head back with a sigh. “He’s so, uh, _independent,_  he  _never_  asks for anything.” 

“Which is partially why I agreed, even though we’ve been working solid through three shifts.” Red Alert groaned as he lifted a hand to set on top of Inferno’s, his systems pinging desperately to offline and recharge right there in the security office. “But now we’re done and we can-,” 

The door beeped.

 “ _No!_ " Inferno heaved himself to his pedes, cradling Red Alert to his chassis as he stormed to the door and threw it open. "No!" he repeated, glaring down at Hound, who suddenly looked a lot smaller than he was. "I don’t care  _what_  it is, Red an’ me’re off shift as of this second.” 

“I- Oh. Okay,” Hound stuttered as he stepped back hastily, out of Inferno’s path. “But, well, Red Alert asked for these sample analyses earlier this shift and I got the results for-,” 

“No.” Inferno shook his head, drawing himself to his full height. “We. Are done. For today.” 

Red Alert mustered enough strength to peek over Inferno’s arm; Hound’s expression fell as they stomped past and a surge of shame fluttered through his fields. 

“No, love,” Inferno whispered, pressing a kiss to his helm. “I commed Prowl t’ log the results an’ trust me, they’ll be there after we get some rest.”

 Too exhausted to attempt to argue, Red Alert nodded and cuddled into the warm embrace, dropping into recharge long before they made it to their room.


	6. Kaon/Tarn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - tactile sex

Kaon was not surprised to discover Tarn had a sadistic streak in the berth. He _was_  surprised to find he immediately responded in kind, climbing the larger mech and bringing Tarn to his knees with lustful bites and painfully digging his digits into bundles of sensitivity. What little shame he had felt in the beginning was overpowered by a heady sense of power and pleasure, feeding off Tarn’s affection like he was starved. 

The control. The excitement. The greedy moans and rough touches. Kaon loved it, loved Tarn for giving him this. He built Tarn’s charge to the crackling edge and brought it forcibly down three times before he knew he would have to give in and follow Tarn over the delicious edge.

Frenzied, panting, they grinded their hips, their legs, their shoulders. Any warm metal that could reach was ruthlessly assaulted with delayed lust and Kaon was pulled toward oblivion, racing and taunting Tarn to get there first. But, unfamiliarity coupled with an unthinkable amount of time between interfacing tipped Kaon’s excitement first, his charge hissing as it dispersed in a brilliant flash.

Though he wanted to sink into the pleasure and think of nothing but, Kaon heard a sharp edge of very real pain in Tarn’s hoarse cry. Kaon’s spark lurched, flooded again with the earlier worry, and he gasped as he forced himself to focus. His coils were still tingling, superheated by a recent conduction- which meant-  _Oh Primus._

"Tarn?" Kaon asked urgently, gripping the wide mask and shaking him slightly. His low level scans returned disturbing reports of erratic energy signatures, and he could smell the tang of burnt wiring. "Tarn! I- I am  _so sorry_ , are you alright?!”

Venting harshly, Tarn wheezed as he slitted one optic open, blearily focusing on the slim figure above. “Th… That was…” His words trailed into static, and Kaon began to panic. 

"Oh Primus, let me run a diagnostic, I probably fried several circuitry-,"

Tarn huffed, a shaking hand pushing Kaon down to his chassis and firmly holding him there. “No- need,” he panted, his amused tone soothing Kaon’s fear. “How soon.. can we do that again?” 

Kaon’s optics widened in reflex as surprise shot through his frame. A second later he burst into laughter, collapsing against Tarn in relief.


	7. Ratchet/Ultra Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TFPverse

Four too many. It  _was_  four, wasn’t it? He had had five- wait- _six_ cubes. That was… four too many. Five? 

Ultra Magnus burst into undignified giggles, slouching onto the makeshift table as he buried his helm against one arm. Across from him, he could hear Wheeljack do the same, though his were more boisterous laughs. 

When was the last time he’d actually heard Wheeljack laugh? Pit, when was the last time  _he_  had? Too long. Too many. Ultra Magnus couldn’t quite do the math anymore, and he was pleased to find he really didn’t care. 

“‘Nother?” Wheeljack taunted, reaching over to clumsily slap at his helm. “C’mon, big guy. Don’t embarrass me now.”

"I don’t think that’s possible," Ultra Magnus sniffed, too relaxed to put more jibe into his tone. His entire frame was overly warm and pleasantly numb, and he had just enough wherewithal to realise his vocaliser was staticky. He was _extremely_  overcharged. And _very_ happy about it.

He dragged the refilled cube toward him, chuckling when it nearly tipped and dripped a smear of high-grade on the table. Wheeljack moaned, flailing and whining about it being a waste, and Ultra Magnus’ optics glinted as he leaned over. Slowly- mostly to overcompensate for his loosened gyros- he hunched and licked at the puddle.

An odd noise sounded behind them and Ultra Magnus tilted his head up lazily to find Ratchet staring down at him with flared optics, mouth open in shock. Ultra Magnus watched in confusion as Ratchet raised a hand and pointed at him, making that choking sound again.

"Wha’?" Wheeljack said defensively. Ultra Magnus merely raised an optic ridge, waiting for Ratchet to say something coherent.

"You’re overcharged," Ratchet said flatly.

Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack laughed uproariously at this. Brilliant,  _clever_ Ratchet! Never could get anything past him! Ultra Magnus would’ve said the sarcasm if he hadn’t been venting harshly.

Ratchet placed his hands on the table, giving Wheeljack a brief warning glare before he turned to Ultra Magnus with a dark look. “Why don’t you finish your drink, Magnus?” the medic purred, his sudden low tone matching the rev of his engine.

Realisation dawned slowly, but when it did, Ultra Magnus’ face was split with a grin. Teasingly he bent down again, keeping his gaze on Ratchet as he flicked his glossa across the wet surface.

A hand blurred past him, knocking over his cube and spilling the rest of the contents under Ultra Magnus’ chin. Startled, he made to sit up, but Ratchet’s grip on the back of his helm prevented him from moving.

"I think you should finish your drink… and then I’ll give you something else to practise on," Ratchet murmured, then reached over to smack Wheeljack’s guffaws quiet.


	8. Misfire/Fulcrum 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’ve got one word for you: sing-along!" Misfire/Fulcrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tekka-chama always gives me the best prompts <3

The soft _tink tink_ of the unwieldy axe echoed rhythmically around Fulcrum; the chipped rocks falling at his feet in an odd staccato. The glowing chunks mixed with the debris on the ground, the unrefined energon lighting the small cave with a soft glow. Fulcrum sighed, carefully picking at the shining veins; it went slow, but unrefined energon was still energon, and he’d happily suffer a few joors of hard work for such a pure source of fuel.

It was lonely work too, though, as all of the W.A.P. crew was scattered along the blufflines with their own scavenged tools to mine what they could grab in the allotted time. The heavy mineral deposits interfered with their comms, which had made scouting the area very difficult. Fortunately they could find no trace of the living passing through the area, and so Krok had ordered them to rendezvous at the end of their shift at the ship. A good plan, but Fulcrum missed Misfire’s rapid-fire chatter and Crankcase’s grumblings. He rarely had time to himself on the ship, but now that he had it… he wasn’t all that thrilled, honestly.

He chuckled, huffing a cloud of warm air as he let the axehead rest on the ground for a moment- then shrieked when a loud crash sounded behind him at the mouth of the cave.

"Relax, handsome," Misfire cackled, rushing in to press a sloppy kiss to the tech’s cheek. "My job to check that everyone’s okay and not, y’know, attacked or buried or cut themselves or something." Heavy hands settled on Fulcrum’s hips. "I see you’re feeling _great_.”

"You scared me," Fulcrum muttered, though without any real heat. "Some warning next time before you drop in, okay?"

"Whatever you want, sweetness," Misfire laughed, nuzzling his neck before bending to pick up a shard of energon. He turned it over in his hand, studying it with a wide grin and- before Fulcrum could stop him- popped it into his mouth, crunching loudly.

"What- Misfire, no!" Fulcrum gasped, smacking his shoulder angrily. "That’s _unprocessed_ energon! It’s-,”

"Deeeeelicious," Misfire sighed happily, one optic closing as he chewed with care. "Bit sharp, but really good stuff, that."

Fulcrum watched in amazement as Misfire swallowed, wincing once, twice, before straightening with a bright smile. “What even are you, Misfire?” he mused, shaking his head.

"I’m your darkest desires," Misfire said in a low, deep tone that made Fulcrum shiver. "Need some _inspiration_ to keep working?”

Fulcrum snorted. “That’s the most subtle proposition you’ve said yet. You’d better get back to work yourself.”

"Hmph." Misfire cocked his head, wings fluttering in excitement. "I know! What about a sing-along?"

Fulcrum’s optics narrowed. “A what?”

"You know, like the miners use," Misfire replied eagerly. "They sang and pounded their pedes to keep in time swinging their picks, so they wouldn’t go too fast and wear themselves out before the end of their shift."

Fulcrum blinked, surprised. “How do you know about that?”

Misfire shrugged, obviously more interested in the idea than the explanation. “I know a few songs,” he continued brightly, “and a few of them are really nasty, like this one about a buymech going down on a-,”

"No," Fulcrum interrupted hastily, holding up a hand. "No, no thank you, Misfire. My ‘crude’ container is still _quite_ full from your earlier joke about the praetor and the gutter mech.”

"But- But-," Misfire whined, bending and wrapping his arms around Fulcrum’s waist. "You’re _supposed_ to say, _'oh yes, Misfire, lord of my loins, come fill me with your brilliant inspiration and drive me to new heights of pleasurable servitude!'_ ”

He tried to keep a straight face- he truly did- but ultimately failed after only a few seconds. Fulcrum burst into laughter; loud, unrestrained laughter as he began shoving Misfire toward the cave mouth. “Oh Primus, Misfire, you’re going to be the death of me!”

"As long as it’s by ‘facing, I don’t think I’d mind too much," Misfire giggled, then screeched as Fulcrum pushed him over the edge. Barely a second later jet engines roared, and Fulcrum could still hear Misfire’s laughter echoing through the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: This is why I think Megatron is so good at poetry- the miners had to sing to keep their work in time with all the others.


	9. Misfire/Fulcrum 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "That is one hell of a mess." Fulcrum/Misfire

In retrospect, perhaps spending their two shifts of shore leave in a sleazy berth in a sleazy hostel wasn’t the most constructive way to spend their free time; but, it was the most fun Fulcrum had experienced in a very long time and he would gladly do it again the next chance they got. Such as, Fulcrum had never been able to comm and order food delivered to him; he’d laughed when Misfire had offered to do so, then gaped in surprise half a joor later when a tired-looking mech knocked on their door and handed over a flimsy container. Misfire had cheerfully paid him- Krok had been generous to them all after the last haul they’d hoarded had sold for twice what they thought- and they had spent the rest of the evening watching ancient vid shows and stuffing their faces with energon treats between fragging.

But, like all good things, their shore leave was rapidly ending and Fulcrum was already planning a route back to the ship, uncurling from Misfire’s warm frame and stretching the kinks from his kibble with a series of loud pops.

“ _Nuuuuuuuu_ not done with you yet,” Misfire mumbled sleepily, wrapping his arms around one of Fulcrum’s thighs. “C’mere and spike me, handsome.”

"You’re not even fully awake," Fulcrum laughed, smoothing a hand down Misfire’s helm before gingerly disentangling himself.

"Didn’t stop you last night!"

"Point taken, but we’re due back at the ship soon." Fulcrum smiled to himself when Misfire whined and flopped on his back. "You don’t want Krok storming in here looking for our afts, do you?"

"…Guess not," Misfire sighed heavily.

Fulcrum tested his pedes, shakily straightening his legs as he shifted his weight. He ached everywhere, a slow burn through his frame reminding him of the shared pleasure over the last two solar cycles. It felt wonderful.

"You okay there, loser?" Misfire chuckled as he sat up. Fulcrum tossed him a playful glare.

"I’d like to see _you_ get up any faster."

Misfire grinned, shoving himself off the berth- then crumpling to the floor in a heap with a shout. “Dammit, techie, did you _dance_ on my backstruts while I was recharging?!” he yelled into the furred carpet.

Fulcrum chuckled evilly, ignoring Misfire’s flailing arms as he slowly- oh so slowly- bent to pick up discarded containers and wrappers. His own backstruts were growling in protest at each movement, and a sliver of worry lanced through his spark. It would take him- and likely Misfire- yet another shift to recover from their antics. Hopefully Krok would not mind too much.

"Whatterya doin’?"

Fulcrum gestured widely as he crumpled another box. “Look at this place. It’s- We made a _hell_ of a mess.”

Misfire grinned proudly as he wobbled to his pedes. “So?”

"So, I’m cleaning up?" Fulcrum’s optics narrowed.

"For the love of Primus _why?_ ”

Fulcrum huffed indignantly. “We can’t just leave it like this!”

Misfire staggered forward, slinging his arms around Fulcrum’s neck for stability. “Oh love, you are so, _so_ innocent.”

Unfazed, Fulcrum leveled another stare at him.

"We paid for the room," Misfire continued, pressing a quick kiss to Fulcrum’s chin. "That means we also paid for the clean-up! It’s automatically part of the bill, sweetspark. S’why I chose this hotel; prices are a bit higher, but less hassle for us. Leave it."

"I don’t know," Fulcrum drawled, then quieted as Misfire held a finger up to his mouth.

“ _Exactly_ , so you should listen to the mech with experience,” Misfire winked.

Fulcrum sighed, glancing around the room, then froze and glanced back to the jet. “How much experience?” he asked curiously. As much as he knew about his Misfire, the Misfire of the W.A.P., it struck him he knew very little about his past. The Scavengers didn’t talk about their life stories; they were all traumatised and secretive about their life before.

"Ohhh, I can tell you _stories_ ,” Misfire giggled as they swerved unsteadily out of the room. “My favourite is about this bot named Skids…”


	10. Ratchet/Wheeljack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from i-am-menial on tumblr:  
> Ratchet and Wheeljack, TFP. Line: "I need this."
> 
> Hurt/comfort in this one. Spoilers for _Predacons Rising_

Ratchet didn't move as the loud  _whump_  crashed beside him, sending a cloud of dust into the air. He didn't need to look to know Wheeljack was checking up on him for the third time this cycle. A second later, Wheeljack’s fields washed over his, adding to his own bitter regret and loneliness.

"Doc?"

The casual nickname used to prompt a rise out of him, even if just for teasing; now, however, it only reminded Ratchet of the past. Happier times, even during the war, because he had his friends still at his side. Coolant welled behind his optics, throwing the brilliant light of the Well into segmented shimmers.

“ _C’mon_ , doc.” Wheeljack sounded more urgent this time.

"No," Ratchet said sharply, venting heated air sharply. All his time on Earth had acclimatised his frame to cooler temperatures; his cooling fans had been going non-stop since his return to Cybertron. 

"So, you _can_ speak," Wheeljack muttered, scooting to the side and into Ratchet’s line of vision. "Look, Sunshine, you can’t just sit here and watch the Well cycle after cycle." He sighed heavily. "I get it, I do, but-,"

Ratchet’s optics flickered, fully powered on as he glared at his lover. “You get nothing,” the medic snapped, growling when Wheeljack reached for him. “You understand  _nothing_.”

A dangerous flash in Wheeljack’s gaze was all the warning Ratchet had before the Wrecker lunged forward, gripping his shoulders and shaking him.  ”Is that what you think?” Wheeljack snarled. “You think we don’t feel what you feel? You think we don’t feel the hole Optimus left behind?”

The words whipped Ratchet like a physical strike, stunning him into momentary silence as he wrenched himself out of the strong grasp. “You think this is just about Optimus?” Ratchet scoffed, drawing his knees up to his chassis defensively. “Like I said, you understand  _nothing_.”

"Oh, and you’re the only one who lost good mechs during the war?" Wheeljack stood, hands curling and uncurling into fists. "You’re the one unique mech outta all of us who carries all those deaths alone, right? Frag, sorry, forgot how  _special_  you are, Ratchet.”

Ratchet’s optics dimmed once again as he listened to the angry transformation and the fading noise of tyres snarling into the dirt.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His vigilant shift was nearly over when Ratchet heard heavy footfalls approaching. His anger had receded, lurking just beneath his carefully cultured apathy. Wheeljack thumped beside him again, huffing softly.

"I’m feelin’ more rational now. How ‘bout you?"

"Acceptably," Ratchet replied honestly.

"Look." Wheeljack pitched to the side, affectionately resting his shoulder wheel against the medic’s as his field pulsed sadly. "I got somethin’ to say, I just- I never been good with words."

Ratchet snorted, optics lighting as he glanced over at the Wrecker. “That’s never stopped you before.”

Wheeljack twisted slightly, grinning up at him. “Oh, now, with Magnus it all just comes out naturally. I can yell with him for hours! But- But with you, it’s always been…” He waved a hand listlessly, his smile fading. “I feel stupid around you.”

Caught by surprise, Ratchet barked a laugh as he wrapped an arm around Wheeljack’s waist, tugging him closer. “Can you repeat that? My audials are glitching.”

"I’m serious." Wheeljack shrugged, jostling them both. "You’re this- this incredibly talented medic and scientist and I blow slag up."

"If you give me the _‘I’m just a dumb warrior’_ speech, I’m not touching your cables for a month," Ratchet threatened, half-serious. "I’ve seen enough of your inventions work to know what high quality processors you have, even if you don't use them often."

Wheeljack groaned, rolling his optics. “Yeah, okay. Okay. But back to my point-,”

"Never known you to ramble," Ratchet mused.

"-My point is, yeah, we all share this grief, but we’re all different in how we feel it. Express it, too. I work hard, so I  _don’t_  hafta think. For you, with the war being over an’ all, you finally have the time to think, and that’s good.”

Ratchet frowned as he straightened, pivoted Wheeljack to face toward him. “Who’ve you been talking to? Arcee? Bumblebee? Perceptor? I swear, if you talked about this with Smokescreen you’ll never heard the end of-,”

"Knockout," Wheeljack interrupted gruffly. 

"…Knockout?"

Wheeljack nodded solemnly. “Both sides suffered losses, y’know. His was also a lot more recent.”

Ratchet sighed, his spark whirling in sympathy. “Of course. I’m just- surprised he took the time to talk to you.”

"Doc Knock’s great to talk to," Wheeljack replied, looking as bewildered as Ratchet. "Wouldn’t think it, but he is. Anyway. This is me, comin’ to you and tellin’ you to take your time. Do what you need to. And don’t let anyone else tell you when or how to do it, including me." His mouth twisted in a taunting grimace. " _Especially_  me.”

Ratchet nodded, sighing again as the tension he’d carried for days-  _years_ \- began to release. He cuddled into Wheeljack’s side, tilting his head so he could watch the colourful sparks dancing above the Well’s opening.

"I need this," Ratchet whispered softly.

"Good." Wheeljack’s grip on him tightened. "Think I do, too."


	11. Jazz/Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from jenn-oddballpunk on tumblr:  
> Jazz/Ratchet: "I think you missed your calling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to jenn, who has introduced me to this pairing. I LOVE IT!

Ratchet may have given him four sensor blockers and a neural inhibitor, but Jazz was feeling fine. Absolutely fine. Better than fine, he was  _great!_  Ratchet was worrying needlessly, as he usually did; Jazz found it rather endearing.

Jazz lifted his helm- the only part of his frame he still had motor control over- and dizzily watched Ratchet’s hands weave in and out of his left side. He felt no pain- nothing at all, really, and that wasn’t just due to the pain suppression. Ratchet was the best of the best, taught by Cybertron’s finest before the war and forged in fire and chaos once it began. Ratchet was  _perfect_ , though he yelled at anyone who said so, which Jazz found endlessly perplexing. Ratchet really was perfect; perfect at his job, perfect for the team. Perfect sight for sore optics, perfect soothing voice and perfect shapely chassis-

"What are you sighing about?"

Jazz’s face immediately split in a grin, though he knew there was no fooling Ratchet. Props for trying, though, right? “Was I?” he asked lazily. “Well, can’t expect me t'not swoon while watchin’ ya work, doc.”

The hesitation was only a split second, but Jazz easily felt the briefly broken rhythm. 

"Your hands, doc," Jazz prompted gleefully. "Beautiful t'look at, beautiful t'watch, even if they’re halfway inside my middle right now. Never seen hands like yours."

"Of course not," Ratchet returned gruffly. "Most of the top tier medics were offlined at the beginning of the war. Cons didn’t respect our kind. Brutal, but effective tactic."

Jazz sucked in a vent, wincing as a sharp pain twisted in his arm.  _Slag_ , he hadn’t meant to lead Ratchet back to the past. Though light-hearted enough to keep the team healthy and happy, Jazz often caught Ratchet looking dour and withdrawn when he thought he wasn’t being watched. Their medic carried the ghosts of his fallen allies as well as the living, and it wasn't fair. Ratchet’s laughter was the most _beautiful_ sound Jazz had ever heard; to have it stolen by the past… Jazz couldn’t fight memories, especially not when his processors were in such a muddle.

But, he would try anyway, because Ratchet deserved it.

"It’s a shame," Jazz said with forced cheeriness. "Before the war, your hands could’ve done a lot of a  _different_  kind of good, doc. Skilled as ya are, mechs woulda been lining up to have ‘em all to themselves for a night. Think ya missed your callin’, Ratch.”

This time there was no tremor in the steady in-and-out of Ratchet’s repairs, but his helm finally lifted to meet Jazz’s gaze. “Excuse me?”

"No excuse for me," Jazz giggled. "Just ask Prowler."

That earned him a half-smile and a chuckle. Jazz’s spark chamber heated with pleasurable warmth.

"Not t’be crass, Ratch, but I consider myself pretty lucky to get your hands all over me on a regular basis," Jazz continued in a rush, desperate to keep those sharp optics on his. "It’s a sweet reward for getting slagged in the first place, y’know?"

Ratchet huffed, leaning in as his hands slowed momentarily. Jazz’s spark leapt, both alarmed by and eager for the closeness.

"You think I missed my calling by not being a highscale buymech?" Ratchet rumbled dangerously.

Oh, that was  _wrong_ , using that tone on a mech who was hyped on meds and vulnerable and unable to reciprocate. Jazz tried to reply, but was mortified to hear a soft moan escape instead.

"How do you know I didn't?" Ratchet whispered, winking once before straightening. 

Stunned and suddenly, wonderfully aroused, Jazz could only gape happily up at the medic.


	12. Drift/Perceptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Drift and Percy, "mischief managed" for sounddrive on tumblr

It took Drift two full weeks to convince Perceptor it was a good idea. Well- perhaps not good, but something worthy of Percy’s off-time and resources. To Drift’s delight, once Percy was in, he was all in.

Unfortunately, it also meant Percy was far overthinking the plan, which Drift could certainly appreciate, but he wanted to do this  _sometime this vorn, y’know, c’monnnn_. In the end, Percy was affronted by Drift’s overly simplistic plan- but was grinning and giggling seconds later as he praised the simplicity with the same breath.

 It didn’t take long to set it up; Drift regularly had access to Rodimus’ chair, and it wasn’t so uncommon to see Perceptor on the bridge, especially chatting to Ultra Magnus (who was blissfully unaware of The Plan). When Rodimus strutted onto the bridge, it took all of Perceptor’s careful resolve and Drift’s training to keep straight faces. 

 Rodimus said something, loudly, that Perceptor didn’t catch. Drift was trying very hard to not stare at the command chair and failing as he plastered a smile on his face.

 Rodimus sat.

 Silence, for one second.

 Perceptor began laughing the second Rodimus screamed and tumbled out of the chair, clutching his aft frantically. Drift fell apart shortly after, stumbling toward Percy and leaning on him as they watched Ultra Magnus stomp toward the chair and pick up several caltrops, rolling them around in his palm curiously before turning a furious glare on them.


	13. Drift/Ratchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift fingering Ratchet, short NSFW prompt from Jenn on tumblr

Drift had seen Ratchet’s valve often enough to not blush at the sight of the shapely spiral of red biolights leading past the ringed nodes; had his spike in it a few times even, when he teased the medic too long in his office and was yanked down atop an overheated frame and messy desk.

But this? Ratchet spread out in front of him like a buffet, thighs splayed wide in invitation, the already dripping valve on display and begging for attention? No, this hadn’t quite happened yet, and Drift was suddenly terrified. He knew exactly how talented medic’s hands were- the rumours had nothing on reality- but he had no such gift. With a start he remembered the only time his hands had been inside another mech had been to… destroy. 

_Wow, and isn’t that a fragged up thought to be sitting here paralysed with?_

“Kid.”

Drift’s optics narrowed as he glanced over the heaving chassis. “ _Not_ in berth, Ratch. Please. That’s-,”

“I had to do something to get you outta your head,” Ratchet growled, toeing one of Drift’s thighs insistently. “I don’t know where you went, but don’t go there. Stay here with me, Drift.”

“Yeah, I-,” Drift in-vented shakily, hands vibrating with anxiety. “I just- I’m not- I haven’t-,” He paused his stuttering when a low rumble came from Ratchet, belatedly realising the medic was chuckling. The blocky legs wrapped around Drift’s waist, easily dragging him closer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ratchet sighed, tipping his helm up to give one of those rare, relaxed smiles. “I want whatever you’ve got, because it’s  _you_ , Drift. Trust me?”

Drift’s vents hitched as the tension drained from his frame. Trusting Ratchet was comfortable, familiar. Safe. He was overthinking again, when he could be focusing on how shiny lubricant was easing down the valve’s folds as Ratchet’s calipers clenched desperately on nothing. Much, much better.

With a wicked grin, Drift purposefully, slowly sucked on two of his fingers until Ratchet was groaning for him to hurry up. He reached down, frame tightened in anticipation as his fingertips lightly circled the exterior nub.

Slurred curses, and then Drift’s wrist was grabbed and  _shoved_ forward and they both moaned in tandem at the flood of new sensations. Ratchet’s valve felt vastly different around his fingers rather than his spike, but no less wonderfully tight and textured. Experimentally, Drift scissored his fingertips to rub against the internal line of sensors and Ratchet arched with a hoarse cry, the medic’s free hand gripping Drift’s thigh hard enough to dent.

Hmm. Maybe Drift did have natural talent.


	14. Grimlock/Bumblebee (TFRID)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested GrimBee cuddles from jenn

Even though the day had been blessedly Decepticon-free, Bumblebee was still exhausted by the time the sun receded past the horizon. He allowed his feet to scrape the dusty ground as he rounded the last of the aisles, to the series of cordoned areas Denny had crafted for each of them. Sideswipe was already parked in his space, lights safely off and hopefully recharging. He noted with amusement Fixit had curled up beside a back tyre, arms crossed with shuttered optics as he lightly snored. The minicon apparently hated being alone, and as much as they enjoyed teasing him for it, Bumblebee honestly couldn’t blame him.

Coming to the last ‘room’ he paused as a deep rumble and large shadowed bulk greeted him. One blue optic slitted, bathing the opposite wall with a soft glow.

That was all the warning he got before the bulk unfurled, grabbing Bumblebee and dragging him close. 

“Grim!” he scolded in a hushed tone, though he smiled when Grimlock paused to glance down at him. “Quiet, now. If you wake Sideswipe,  _you_ get to deal with his mischief the rest of the night.”

Grimlock snorted, a warm vent tickling Bumblebee’s face as he was fussily arranged to mould to the larger frame. “Not gonna risk missin’ out,” Grimlock replied in a loud whisper. 

“Miss what?” Bumblebee mumbled, his systems already slowing to syncing to the Dinobot’s.

“This,” Grimlock sighed drowsily, nestling his chin on Bumblebee’s helm. “I look forward to this all day.”

Bumblebee’s vocaliser threatened to choke, but he managed to whisper, “Me too, Grim,” just before burying his face against the broad chest.


	15. Red Alert/Inferno (Cop!AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RedFerno Cop!AU, with Red Alert the Head of Internal Affairs and Inferno the beat cop  
> Requested by gamercat on tumblr

Inferno leaned back in the too-tiny chair, ignoring the ominous creak as he punched the password in on his computer with one hand. The department had just gotten the funds to upgrade all their equipment, and the only good thing to come out of it was the nifty touch screens- he could be so lazy logging in now, if he did it at all. 

All this new fancy scrap was such a waste of resources; what the police really needed was more cops on the payroll.  _And better paid cops_ , he thought with a quiet vent.  _Else we ain’t gonna get any new folks signing up for training…_

The bright ENTER button was glaring at him and he ignored it in favour of shuttering his optics, the usual bustle and noises around him melting into a pleasant hum as he relaxed. He needed to file a report of the cycle’s events but he was exhausted after being out on the beat for a double shift. Maybe just a few kliks to rest, then he could worry about paperwork-

“Officer Inferno?”

The voice was unregistered in his banks. With a groan Inferno lit an optic, glancing around and finding no one. Had he misheard chatter in the background?

“Down here.”

Inferno straightened, frowning as he swiveled his helm- then laughed when he noted the short red bot off to his right. “Oh, hey there.”

The short bot bristled, the deep frown twisting into distaste. “Officer Inferno, if you have time to recharge, you most definitely have time to finish your reports for the cycle.”

“Uhh…” Inferno tilted his head, trying to not look too guilty. Although this little guy was right, he didn’t have a clue who the squirt was and resented the authoritative tone. “Don’t think we’ve met,” he said cheerily, offering a hand. “M’Inferno.”

“I know very well who you are.” The bot glared at his hand, backing away a step as if it were an attack. “I suggest you return to your work before I file a complaint.”

Inferno swallowed his snarky retort, venting deeply instead. “Sure thing. But ya gotta give me a designation. How else m’I gonna look ya up for drinks afterwards?”

The sharp optics narrowed and Inferno couldn’t help but let his gaze roam over the crisp red and white paintjob that led from the pale faceplates down to the boxy shoulders and slender waist. Though shorter than most cops, Inferno knew from experience smaller bots could be twice the trouble. 

Inferno liked trouble.

And interestingly enough, the strong front crumbled slightly at the question. Perhaps the curt words hid something softer, like with his boss, Prowl?

“Red Alert,” the red bot huffed, hiking the stack of data pads in his arms higher as he attempted to level a glare at him- a bit difficult from that angle. 

Inferno stiffened; while the voice was new, the name he recognised as the new bossbot of Internal Affairs. A bot he’d promised to meet at his inauguration three cycles ago. “Oh! Wow, welcome to the team, sir. I hadn’t thought you’d- uh-,” He bit off his sentence far too late. Red Alert’s optics flared unpleasantly.

“I’d be what?” Red Alert spat with a sudden show of anger. “Out with it, officer. I know what you think.”

Inferno swallowed hard, biting at his lower lip. What a mess already. “Short, sir. But- But that’s not important, sir, and trust me, you know get no flack from me. About anythin’.”

Red Alert blinked rapidly, tilting his head and looking so adorably befuddled Inferno barked a laugh. “My  _height_ is what puzzles you?”

“Well, your lack of it,” Inferno chuckled, slapping a hand on the other bot’s shoulder. Red Alert cried out, jumping away from the contact as if burned, and Inferno recoiled instinctively. “Sorry!”

“Don’t touch me please,” Red Alert muttered, rubbing at his arm with that strange embarrassed expression again. 

“Right, very sorry,” Inferno repeated, offering a bright smile in apology.

“My- My  _glitch_ prevents me from enjoying social customs,” Red Alert stated bluntly, optics blazing in defiance.

“Oh?” Inferno nodded, holding his hands up peaceably. “Frag! I’ll remember that. Hey, uhm.” He glanced at his screen, still waiting patiently for the ENTER button to be pressed, then grinned down at his new superior. “After I get these reports done- in record time, yanno- why don’t ya let me take ya out when yer off shift?”

“I- What?!” 

Inferno laughed again, pinging Red Alert with his comm number. “I was supposed to when ya got here, but I’ve been busy. C’mon, lemme make it up to ya. I know a great little bar down on the corner.”

Red Alert stared.

Inferno stared back, smile not wavering as he waited. And when Red Alert replied, he could both see and hear the shock in the tiny voice.

“…Alright.”


	16. Drift/Perceptor (cop!AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driftceptor Cop!AU, with Drift the detective (with a shady past) and Perceptor the head of the crime labs  
> Requested by gamercat (same AU as previous RedFerno one)

“…Hello?”

Drift opened the door further, cautiously stepping fully inside the lab. Just like he’d suspected, there were too-white counters and lots of delicate glass and what looked like foreign languages written across the floating screens. He hated places like this; they made him feel stupid.

Why had Inferno passed this errand off to him? It wasn’t  _his_ job to drop off lab results. Did laboratories make Inferno nervous too? Or was he too busy making passes at his tiny red boss? Primus, those two were an unlikely pair…

“Hello?” he called again, impatient and jittery. Could he leave the evidence baggies on the table, maybe? No- Drift knew better. “Got somethin’ to drop off!”

This time he heard movement, and his instincts screamed for his battle protocols to online as he froze. A tall bot came from beyond a doorway to his right, helm ducked to stare at a data pad in hand as he glided into the room. To Drift’s amazement, the bot passed within arm’s length without apparently noticing him.

“Hello?” he repeated uncertainly.

The bot started, data pad clattering to the table as he whirled to find the voice, optic flared wide and bright in surprise. “Oh! Greetings,” he said in a cultured voice, a strange lilt to his words Drift had heard only rarely. “My apologies for not noticing your presence, I am quite busy.” He straightened, folding his hands in front of him. “May I assist you, sir?”

“Don’t call me that, for one,” Drift muttered. “Are you, uh, Perceptor?”

“Indeed I am,” he nodded. “I am the curator of this laboratory.” 

“Drift,” he supplied when Perceptor gazed expectantly at him. “Uh, Detective Drift I guess, I-,”

“Transferred in a decacycle ago from Kaon, formerly of Tarn, formerly of-,”

“Yeah, yeah, I move around a lot,” Drift said sharply. Disturbing that the lab junkie knew his history so well. He held out the baggie, taking the opportunity to subtly scan the scientist. Triple-changer, ex-military, targeting reticle, practised grace at odds with the absent-mindedness. Was the distracted act a ruse? “Here you go, from Team 390, Case 23.50.40.”

“Excellent, I greatly appreciate you bringing it directly to me, but…” Perceptor gave him a bemused smile as he took the baggies, “ _why_ did you? Cliffjumper handles most deliveries to and from the laboratory.”

Drift’s optics narrowed. Had Inferno set him up? “Who’s that?”

“Oh! Of course. New to the department.” Perceptor set the baggies aside, fussily lining them to the edge of the table, then turned back to Drift with a bright smile. “Cliffjumper is a long-suffering minibot who does a bit of everything for every department. Completely indispensable and rarely appreciated. While I enjoy chatting with him on his visits, I would not be opposed to meeting you again.”

Drift frowned, wondering if he had heard right- especially with that oddly cute smile the scientist still had. He was surprised to find the feeling was mutual. Perceptor was strange, but not intimidating or condescending like most medics and bots in related fields usually were. Alluring would be a more apt description of how Drift felt, and that was rare enough he was immediately on guard again.

“Uh, sure,” he said awkwardly, shocking himself by stepping closer instead of retreating. “Since I’m here, you need anything done?”

Perceptor immediately perked at the question, optic lit brilliantly as his smile widened. “Oh, do you have a groon or two to spare? I need assistance repairing a rather important instrument- but it is a personal item, not related to our job, so I completely understand if-,”

“I got time.” 

Perceptor paused, apparently surprised, then motioned for Drift to follow him. “Excellent! I greatly appreciate the help. This machine is for a personal project, but if I can perfect it, I will be able to petition to use it during my field tests which would greatly expedite results and make your job a lot easier…”

Drift quietly followed, soaking in that beautiful accent, determined to stay until he knew why this strange bot made him  _want_  to stay after only a few kliks of conversation.


	17. Kup/Perceptor (celebrity AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rare pairing Kup/Percy, celebrity AU, requested by anon on tumblr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on fiddling with the AU more in the future ;) So I want to put this here so I remember it all.

Before his famous speech and subsequent increasingly obsessive inclusion in various Cybertronian media, all Perceptor had wanted to do was work. 

Now, he realised how foolish he had been to take his freedom for granted; now all he wanted was  _peace_ , to find time between interviews and being recognised on the street when it was truly quiet. 

Most of all, he missed not being angry about having a non-mobile altmode. It was so easy to get swarmed any time he stepped outside his home.

The most degrading aspect of his unwanted new life was the assignment of a bodyguard, someone to shadow his movements and protect him if his “fans” became too insistent. Perceptor had protested against this with all the intelligence and charm he could muster, but Optimus had been deaf to his pleas. A cycle later, a stocky Autobot, obviously ex-military with a matching attitude, had arrived at his house and bullied his way inside.

…That had been a decacycle ago, and everything had changed after that terrifying attempt on his life. Kup had literally thrown himself over the scientist, protected him, and though injured in the struggle had run down the perpetrator to ensure he was captured. Afterwards, Kup had sauntered back over to Perceptor, customary wide grin on his dented and bloody face, and quite suddenly asked if he wanted to frag sometime.

Though Perceptor still hadn’t decided on an answer to that insane question- hadn’t decided, honestly, if Kup had even been serious, what with the concussion his bodyguard had suffered- there was one thing for sure: Kup was by far the best consequence of this new life.


End file.
